


Why This Jubilee?

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Character Study, Christmas, Gen, Introspection, Religious Content, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When walking home in the snow, Nelson considers the loss of his faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why This Jubilee?

Christmas was four days away and a heavy snow was falling upon the layers already accumulated. Nelson trudged through it, arms wrapped tight across his chest for warmth. The wind threatened each seam of his coat, searching for a weak point, an entry by which it might chill him to the bone. He squinted against the diagonal flurry of white. Conditions were too horrendous for driving, but they were no better for the lonely pedestrian, either.  

“The service is about to start.”  

Nelson stopped and looked around. He blinked snow from his lashes and stared in the direction of the voice. Backlit by a pale, yellow light, a robed man was looking down from the church steps.  

“You might keep warm until the storm lets up,” the priest continued, gesturing to the oak doors and the tempting warmth within.  

Nelson forced a tight smile.  

“No. Thank you. I’ll be fine,” he answered stiffly. It felt like ages since he had stepped within a church. “And my wife is expecting me.”  

The man nodded in understanding, before raising his eyes to survey the snow-covered street. Huge drifts were forming against the sides of buildings, and the roads were indistinguishable from the sidewalks— not that much could be seen anyway, when the fierce wind and the flurry of flakes mandated that Nelson keep his eyes lowered, lest he be blinded by weather.  

“In which case, Godspeed on your journey home.”  

Nelson gave a grunt of thanks and set off once more, each step hampered by the snow around his ankles and the wind blowing back against him. After three more blocks of his laborious journey, he paused. His boots were soaked through; he could no longer feel his toes. The scarf around his neck felt more like a sheet of ice, as snow melted and froze again against him. Nelson stared in the direction of home— knowing he still had a ways to walk yet— and back towards the church. The longer he stood deliberating, the colder he got; until at last, with a frustrated sigh, he turned around and walked back.  

He cringed at the noise the chapel doors made— heavy as they were— as he entered late. The service had begun. The congregation stood, the pews only half-filled due to the storm, their voices echoing off the high ceiling as they sang praises to the Lord. Nelson slipped into a back pew and draped his coat, hat, and scarf beside him to thaw. He hurriedly thumbed through the hymnal, just in time to sing the last verse as the churchgoers finished and sat back down.  

The service continued; the priest began reading from Matthew and Nelson felt his attention begin to slip. He knew— of course— the story by heart, as he did much of the Bible. Though he had not thought on it recently, he could feel the words forming again in his mind, familiar and almost-tangible on the tip of his tongue.  

Everything was the same. He had never set foot in this church— he was not even certain that it was his denomination— but the lights cast a familiar dimness across the center aisle, and the polished wood was familiar beneath his hands, as he clasped them together on the back of the pew in front.  

It smelled of everything he had once breathed with a sense of homecoming— the must, and the old pages, and the candles, and the stillness in the air. There was the scent of something old, like every church that had ever been had converged into one, bringing with it the might of centuries of belief. Everything was wrapped into the dampness.  

“If you will please kneel, for a moment of prayer in thanksgiving to Christ our Lord, for becoming man for the sake of our sins.” The priest’s voice broke through Nelson’s thoughtfulness, as congregants around him slipped silently from the pews to their knees. Too broad to fit comfortably on the little stools, Nelson remained seated, bowing his head out of respect for the others, if nothing else.  

 _“Almighty God…”_ he thought, force of habit stirring the words to the forefront of his mind. He thought them with the tonality of a question; Nelson was himself unsure if he questioned God’s availability to listen or His existence entirely.  

 _“I thank you—”_ No, he would not lie, to himself or to any being that chanced to listen. _“I am thankful,”_ he amended, _“for…”_  

The old Nelson would have given thanks for God’s righteous justice, for the goodness of his sovereignty in offering mercy, for the grace or judgment He dispensed rightfully.  

Nelson shifted in the pew; he opened one eye and peered around at the other congregants, dutifully bowed in prayer.  

 _“I am thankful for Sigrid. For Abigail, and for Chester. For our home, such that it is. I am thankful that I may provide for my family, through whatever means I must.”_ It was honest, at least, and Nelson was content with that.  

There was a clamor around him; the congregation was standing again and he hurried to his feet. “In celebration of the Christmas season— and the Christmas Child, born of the Virgin Mary— we will rejoice in the message He brought unto us, so many years ago in Bethlehem,” the priest announced, his voice followed by organ chords and a hurried turning of pages.   

They began “Angels We Have Heard on High,” with its lofty ups-and-downs of familiarity and the sounds of cheerful tradition in all their voices. All held their “Gloria” with diligence, as though they meant to cling to God’s grace with every breath, and sang their retelling of the Christmas story beneath the density and heaviness of the organ. Their joyous strains echoed in the vaulted ceiling; the sound trapped and tumbled back down, until it engulfed the room.  

Nelson kept his voice low. He was not a good singer, and he was not a liar, as the others around him sang praises to the Lord. If nothing else, he would be truthful; he would not make a mockery with false worship. Nelson, instead, let his eyes wander to the depictions in the stained glass window, to the embellished crosses in the stone walls. They were holy things, beautiful things, and his hands were dirty. It was not that he believed there were no waters strong enough, as he had once accused in others without faith— as he had, indeed, once believed in himself. There was no lack of strength; there was just total absence. Long ago, Nelson had spent many a night in contemplation of his own sins, his own wrongs, his own failings, and what he might do better to appease God. His sins and wrongs and failings were still on his shoulders, but his back had grown stronger than his faith ever had.  

His hands were dirty. All hands were dirty. He would leave no smudges on the hymnal, because they were always touched by filth. And if all hands were dirty, who was Nelson to worry about his own?  

 _“Come adore on bended knee, Christ the Lord, the newborn king. Gloria, in excelsis Deo,”_ they sang together. Nelson closed the hymnal and put it away, instead wrapping his scarf around his neck and throwing his hat atop his head, sliding unobtrusively out of the pew.  

His coat had dried; Nelson was confident he could face the storm.  

 


End file.
